


To run away from home, you need one first.

by KaneNogami



Category: HiGH&LOW: THE WORST (TV), HiGH&LOW: the Story of S.W.O.R.D. (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: Doubt lingers, in many forms. Part of the past, stuck underneath fingernails. Bleeding red, refusing to leave. (Kaito has many bad days) // Broken isn't beautiful; misplaced bones, blood running down your chin, there is nothing pretty in that. (Odajima reminds himself he is loved) // You're dying. That's a common thing. There is an offer hanging in the air, for treatment, for a place where you won't have any control. (Smokey isn't certain of what he wants) // When he got stabbed, you could laugh, that was different, a bit funny. Here, as blood is still running out—isn't it positive, doesn't it mean he's alive?—you cannot tell reality from that nightmare. (Yasushi is scared of being alone)
Relationships: Kaito/Kizzy (High & Low), Nishikawa Yasushi/Yokoyama Kiyoshi, Rocky/Smoky (High & Low), Todoroki Yosuke/Odajima Yuken
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: High and Low Shipping Week





	To run away from home, you need one first.

  
Doubt lingers, in many forms. Part of the past, stuck underneath fingernails. Bleeding red, refusing to leave. No amount of water and soap can make the memories go. Have you tried bleaching your fingers? Slicing them off could work too, get creative. Aren't you the poster child for boredom, face in this permanent dismay at everything surrounding you. Hey hey, aren't you part of this world, Kaito? 

  
Some days, floating between yes and no—wondering, slipping from one truth to a lie. Few words past your lips, who would care about your dirty nails anyway? You wear a glove, Kizzy the other. As if you were always holding hands—you are not. 

  
She's your flower, blossoming by your side, whereas you have been told you wither everything you touch. Happiness only flashing on your face when your foot collides with a skull, pain reverberating inside your own body. She's—

  
The one latching onto your arm, ignoring how terrible you are, how not enough you feel. Oh wait, she must be aware. Kizzy is emotions, a bouquet of contradictions. All of them packed in a body which cannot fit all of them. Isn't it enough to be the loudest and prettiest, to get jealous and then clingy? 

  
She plants a kiss on your lips, peach flavored gloss leaving your heart sinking. When will words come out? Is it compulsory, to have a voice if you do not trust your tongue whereas her is like a blade filled with beautiful thorns? 

  
You show your hands, and she squeezes them as if blood wasn't going to pour from the accumulation underneath the skin, of all these innocents and monsters you beat up. Can't we take Doubt back, everything before—wait what's before, you think about it without knowing what it means. Weren't you born with Kizzy, when she whispered secrets into your ears, you were both sixteen and she trusted you with her life. 

  
What the hell. 

  
_Let's paint your nails_ , that's all it takes to wash anguish away. She drags you into her little space, where she hoards makeup and nail polish like treasures. Base, yes of course, then what color what would you like? 

  
Anything to hide the remains of who you were, your eyes tell her, voice falling you. She refuses that answer.

  
Kizzy loves you, cruelty and mistakes, alongside good deeds and everything you've done. Your fingers are trembling as she waits, removing your glove gently. 

  
Teal. That sounds different from the usual black you wore back when Doubt was your world. Glee invades her voice as she makes sure to apply the base properly first.

  
Will it hide the blood you're the only one capable of seeing? You squirms a bit, once she's done, slipping on your lap to wrap arms around you. A soft embrace, lasting until you're Yes once more. _Yes, I love you. Yes, I am here._

  
The nails remind you of the Ocean you've never seen—you'd like a wedding close to the water. The thought is unexpected, waves of wariness crashing over your head until you have to bury it against Kizzy' shoulder. 

  
One single _I love you_ , whispered into her ear.   
She won't leave you. You won't leave her.   
You're both flowers, nurtured by blood and a bit of kindness. 

  
//

  
Assumptions are always made, that's how humanity started, judging the ones around you, for safety, for fun, for mockery. If you ask people to single one of the four generals, the easiest to get down, they will spit your name. Loud as self-defense, careless, frame unable to hold the body properly. 

  
Broken isn't beautiful; misplaced bones, blood running down your chin, there is nothing pretty in that. Aren't bruises akin to flowers? Don't you believe that you're akin to a falling star, blond hair and that aggravating smile?

  
No.

  
You hate them. Writers, historians, enemies. People who decided that hurting was meant to strengthen your heart, to make people rush to you to mend it. The truth is, care is lost, compassion and kindness alongside it.

  
You don't need to make your heart more powerful, it's holding out fine, as you rush from one idiot to another. You're not Jinkawa, Shida, or Sawamura. You're not Sachio. Your punches aren't as deadly, although you stand on unsteady feet anyway, taunting and a bit cruel at the damage you've caused. 

  
You do not wish to be any of them, to be known as more than the weird brained one. 

  
If you were another being, made from scratch, clay molding you with healthy eyes, and a bit more height, your heart would have to be redone too. 

  
The back pressing against yours wouldn't be there, keeping you upright no matter what. 

  
_Hey, Doroki, can we end this soon, I'm tired~_  
 _Dying isn't an option_ , he replies, and you can picture his stern face without seeing any of it. 

  
You charge, one last time, on different sides, yet into the world you share. That's lying, pretending that suffering will heal your twisted insides, your shitty pasts. Bullying, absent family. Whatever, you have no need to be beautiful, or whole, or whatever. 

  
You're—

  
_Odajima_ , name whispered as he catches you before you can crash down. Concern dripping like an IV inside your body; hospital you won't go to, because it's too far and the world is a mix or colors which leave you dizzy. You lean against him, ignoring the carnage you're leaving behind. 

  
In fact, these fools, they have never watched you kicking Shida's ass over nothing, getting Jinkawa to carry you on his back, helping Sawamura to make up excuses to leave a bit earlier, obtaining homemade bentos in return. They weren't there when Sachio broke two of your fingers during a vicious spar, then tied your hair every morning for one month as an apology. 

  
You're more loved than they'll ever be, so fuck them. That's your strength. A bit mean, a bit manipulative, painfully honest at times too. 

  
_Sleep at my place_ , Todoroki suggests, as if you weren't basking in blood, his shirt drenched in red, sleeve of your cardigan ripped off.

  
_Better than the funeral home_ , you guess out loud, pressing your lips together until all you can taste is victory. 

  
Todoroki, always considered to be second best—always standing no matter what. 

  
If anything, you're the strongest member of Housen.

  
He's a part of Oya's heart as much as he is inside of yours. 

  
//

  
A night at the laundromat, place hidden between vending machines, old door always open, unable to close; water slipping inside each time it rains. The same two washing machines, four dryers, all the same washed green. They buzz as they spin, at least one of the dryer always filled even when no one seems to be there. You cough, sound muffled by the rest. A bit of regret, to be there again, to push coins with shaky fingers. That's the kind of luxury people have long grown accustomed to. 

  
On Nameless street, even washing clothes can be difficult—children stealing coins from unwatched pockets, mothers filling machines more than what's indicated to save what they can; won't be enough for themselves, to earn a way out. You cough blood, wiping your fingers again and again. 

  
_Stop doing that_ , he tells you, leaning against the machine on which you're sitting. 

  
It's his bedsheets inside the washer, twisting, drowning. Like you. 

  
_I cannot_ , you say, aware that's not what he is trying to tell you. 

  
Why can't you accept this? Living together, having a flat next to the club—why must you run, like a stray biting the hand offered to you, bleeding on expensive white and then making these meek attempts at fixing nothing at all. You're not made for any of it. You won't wear white; Nameless street is a ruin for anything not resistant enough. A ruin for everything else too. 

  
Your jacket has been patched one hundred times, you won't change it either. 

  
_I'm never mad at you_ , Rocky tries tosoothe your malfunctioning body—you liked better when he talked about killing you, some days. When the distance stopped you from being so attached. 

  
_You're dying_. 

  
You're dying. That's a common thing. There is an offer hanging in the air, for treatment, for a place where you won't have any control. Can you accept this? Can you picture the man you love walking in with flowers, kissing your forehead and saying 'let's go home soon'? 

  
Not yet.

  
You'll be dying forever anyway, that's how it feels.

  
Rocky doesn't leave—not like he was abandoned once, violence taking everything from him—sitting by his side, shades off as they stare together as the machine keeps on spinning. 

  
A can is offered, _for your throat_ , he says, and it's your favorite. 

  
It does make things less bad, you relent, not pushing him away. For now, all you want is company. The silent kind, support without uneasy conversations. 

  
You're dying, Rocky is there. 

  
You open the can, taking a sip slowly.

  
Isn't it enough, for now? You hesitate, unsure of wishing to say anything, but he's faster.

  
_Once this is finished, let's get you back to bed._  
 _Will you stay?_ You ask. 

  
You're dying, you'd rather not be alone. He nods, a bit annoyed, silly shiny thing on his teeth too bright for your eyes. Perhaps, when you feel like a traitor, for wishing to get better when so many didn't have the option at all, what you need is reassurance. 

  
_Koo can manage for the rest of the night._

  
You're alive, allowing your body to fall asleep against his shoulder, laundry still far from being clean. Ah, it's only a nap, it's fine. 

  
//

  
You bleed to stay alive. Until the day where blood is out of order. Coagulation happens when the body fails, liquid turning thick, unable to go on. Brain needs oxygen too—that's hard to have these facts piling up inside your head when you've never graduated junior high, opting to terrorize everyone instead.

  
Now—that stupid shirt covered in flowers looks out of place, on a person too still, laying on the ground without his chest even rising.

  
_Hey, wake up idiot_ , you're shouting, shaking the moron, as if it could help at all. If anything, aren't you worsening the situation, only good at creating mayhem. Where's your laughter, Yasushi? Where did it go? 

  
Hands try to pry you off him, and you fight every single one. He's yours, then can't take him. _Find your own stupid corpse to weep over_ , you scream, except your voice comes out so wrong, breaking apart. 

  
There is no reason for that to happen—one minute he was fine, then you caught a glimpse of something metallic being lifted and that terrible sound. You're familiar with it, fingers digging against the side of your head on bad days—you don't recover, without money or will to go to the hospital. You heal a bit, then bear with whatever the consequences are. 

  
Don't show weakness, you've always mocked him for that. Yet proud of how he is willing to defend you when their words turn into insults. Only the two of you, punching and laughing. 

  
Only one left. 

  
You're crying, unable to stop, to control it. 

  
When he got stabbed, you could laugh, that was different, a bit funny. Here, as blood is still running out—isn't it positive, doesn't it mean he's alive?—you cannot tell reality from that nightmare. 

  
You punch Fujio, for intervening, being dragged back by somebody else. That stubborn leader you didn't truly vote for tries to carry your lover on his back, and that should be your job. Except you're frozen in place, staring at them leaving, Fujio walking as fast as he can, then at your hands. 

  
What is wrong with you? 

  
Jamuo—fool, still scared of you when your smiles get too sharp, useless in combat—grabs your arm, fingers steady although his voice isn't. 

  
_Let's go to the hospital, they can save him_!

All you remember, from your own accident is—a long blank. Being wary of dark alleys for weeks, Kiyoshi wrapping an arm around your shoulder and mocking you for being a baby. You like that, the mean way you communicate. You like kisses and bad days and fights and everything else. 

  
_When he wakes up, I'm punching him in the head_ , you mumble, letting Jamuo drag you to the clinic. Your brain is filled with static, even later, when you find yourself sitting inside the hospital room.

  
The boy brings you soup from the coffee machine, it's orange and a bit too vegetable-ish for you. It does the job at keeping you busy for a while. 

  
_Thanks._  
 _He'll definitely get better_! Annoying guy.

  
Then, it's only them. Checks-up every three hours, nurses inspecting wounds, squeezing the rough hand into yours. Sometimes a bit too much to get a reaction. 

  
Morning starts to shine inside the room, the door opened showing a glimpse of Jamuo's ugly yellow shirt, a hint of Fujio's voice—why do you care, until now it was only us, we were fine!

  
Then fingers squeeze yours back, one eye opening after the other. 

  
_Ya' cryin'?_   
You dig your nails into his palm, wiping the burning tears furiously with your sleeve. 

  
_Shut the fuck up, Kiyoshi!_

  
He woke up.   
You're so relieved. 


End file.
